


Afterglow

by whinylittlepricklets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Jim is a Little Shit, M/M, Multi, Sebastian Moran is a pining motherfucker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 19:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10255940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whinylittlepricklets/pseuds/whinylittlepricklets
Summary: You’d thought it was a rumor--Moriarty fucking his bodyguards--but you’ve since been proved wrong.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this in the wee hours of the morning after TFP premiered because I could not get this idea out of my head so here we are

The first time you catch him, you don’t exactly  _ catch  _ him. You  _ hear  _ him. 

Well, you mostly hear his partner, moaning and yelling obscenities. You couldn’t help yourself. You moved closer to his bedroom door, close enough to hear a breathy moan that sends shivers up and down your spine because you know it’s  _ him _ . You back away silently, scribble a note, and leave his flat with shaking hands and an erection. 

The second time, it’s just a glimpse of him kissing a short ginger man and pushing him up against a wall. You leave before he can see you. 

The third time, he’s standing against a wall, head thrown back and eyes closed in bliss. There’s a man on his knees before him, his dark hair twisted in Moriarty’s hand. You don’t make a sound--you swear to this day that you didn’t--but his eyes suddenly fly open and locks onto yours. You stand there, frozen in his stare as a small smile spreads across his face. He pulls on the kneeling man’s hair and winks at you suggestively. Your mouth goes dry, your heart pounding. He lets his eyes slip closed again before he releases a lewd moan. It’s exaggerated and pornographic and sexy and-and-and-- 

You run. 

The next time you hear banging in his flat and another unfamiliar voice, you don’t even bothering opening the door and just leave. 

You’d thought it was a rumor--Moriarty fucking his bodyguards--but you’ve since been proved wrong. You even know a few of these men, have seen them milling about while on a job. You’ve seen them at his side. 

You’ve seen them die. The only thing without fail that seems to happen is their deaths. You let out a shiver even though it’s boiling in your shitty flat. 

The last time, the time before everything changes, is the one you see completely. You see Moriarty grab him by the tie, lean up and whisper into his ears before pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. The man of the night is tall, dark-skinned, and stoic, at first. Before the end of the night, he’s been fucked twice and is now riding Moriarty into infinity. Moriarty is set deep his white, formerly-pristine bedsheets, gasping and groaning as the man eagerly bucks into him, moaning all the while. 

When they’ve both finished, the man collapsed besides him, clearly basking in the afterglow. You hear him say something, and Moriarty’s face contorts in offense. He says something back, and then they’re both silent for a while. He gets up after a few minutes and strides towards your direction. You went into his bathroom to wash up, but you were so captivated by the scene that had happened before your eyes that you still can’t move.

“I didn’t know you were an exhibitionist, my dear Sebastian.” You cough, mouth dry, and struggle to respond. 

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to intrude on your personal life like this, I just--” You stop talking, almost stop  _ breathing _ , as he steps into your personal space and lightly trails his fingertips over your face, over the scar on your nose. He’s still nude and disheveled from his previous activities, and you just stare at him in stunned silence.

“Would you like to be one of my boys, hm? Sebastian? Would you like to be my lucky man of the night one of these days?” You know the consequences. You know what’s happened to all the rest that he’s shagged. 

Even while keeping this in mind, you still can’t stop yourself from breathing “yes” much too quickly.

“Good… that’s good,” he drawls. He pulls his hand away from your face and places it on your right shoulder. His other hand does the same on the other side, and he suddenly shoves you against the sink where you had scratched blood from underneath your fingernails. His breath is hot against your face, and the aroma of cinnamon still lingers there. You can taste it, too, when he presses his mouth to yours. Muscle memory, not conscious thought is what makes you kiss him back and run the edge of your teeth over his lip. After either an hour or a few seconds--you can’t tell which--he pulls away and leans in close to murmur something into your ear.

“There’s more where that came from.”

**Author's Note:**

> I live off of comments and helpful criticism.


End file.
